Mum’s White Lies: The Santa Edition
Mumma Bear and Her Quick Bullshit Tongue
Believing in Santa Claus is believing in magic. Nothing is more special than the magic of Christmas. Sorry Jesus, the fat man bought my love with toys! But it was more than that — the elves and the reindeer. The entire lore was created around the jolly man. An echo of Odin, although I didn’t know anything about mythology as a kid. Just the fat dude in red gave me toys and lollies, and the North Pole was awesome.
Christmas was special for the mumma bear. Presents galore. A bit stingy with the birthday but hey no one is perfect. She wanted to keep my faith in Santa alive for as long as possible. There were a few close calls.
When I was 7 Santa left me a My Little Pony on the Christmas Tree. The Brush n’ Grow, Pretty Vision (I take ponies seriously and remember this shiz). I tore apart my Christmas stocking like it was on fire, separating the sugar from the little toys.
In my stocking was an accessories pack for Pretty Vision. Full of little hair pieces that were fated for the vacuum cleaner. I inspected the packaging and my mouth dropped in horror. No! I could not believe it. How could this be? The nonbelievers at school were right Santa is a big fat lie. This came from no elf factory in the North Pole.
Mum why is there Kmart price tag.
The country town where we lived only had Kmart to shop in at the time and the nearest alternative was a Target, a 5-hour drive away. This is called living in the middle of buggery. Only in Australia. Anyway, I give the mumma bear credit for her quick bullshit tongue.
Santa gets busy this time of year and shops in Kmart when he needs to.
Seemed like a sound reason to me. Belief in Santa saved for a few more Christmases. I am so grateful for that look me in the eye lie.
Every year the Old Man’s workplace put on a Christmas do for the kids and family. Everyone knew everyone in this outback town. Most worked for the same mining company. The family Christmas sundowner was a huge affair. Hundreds of kids got a present from Santa while the parents drank themselves merry. I should remind my lovely readers, December is Summer in Australia and we lived in the Pilbara where it is hot in winter and fucking hot in summer. The men drank beer like water.
One year, I guess I was about 9, I waited in line for my name to be called by Santa sweating like a pig. Santa arrived like a rockstar waving and blowing kisses (probably). He came closer.
What. The. Hell!
That’s not Santa, not even an elf. That’s Jay’s dad. Why was Jay’s dad pretending to be Santa? Impostor! At least there were presents. Thank the sugar plum fairy, I was too old for lap sitting. That would have been weird.
After receiving my gift, I returned to my family to open my precious. Who knows what it was, not a My Little Pony that’s for sure. Because I’m a good pony mumma and remember where my girls came from.
Whispers travelled kids’ circles about Jay’s dad being Santa. Their parents told them Santa was the real McCoy. No way. That was a fake beard and wig. So, I had a private word with the mumma bear.
Santa can’t be everywhere at once. He’s too busy getting ready for Christmas and outsources for parties and shopping centres. Jay’s dad is one of his special helpers.
Ok, thanks, Mum. But, could they have picked someone who wasn’t so hairy? We’re talking black carpet. At least she didn’t insult my intelligence and say Santa wasn’t my classmate’s dad. That lie would not have flown with Rudolph.
I’d just turned 10 when my faith in the mysterious gift giver began to shake. My class was evenly split between believers and non-believers but the believers began to falter and move towards the dark side. I wanted to keep the faith but a lot didn’t add up. Like how did Santa get in when we had no chimney and a German Shepard guarding the back door? Ok, dear Tasha was the sweetest and most docile dog ever. But how could Santa fly around the world in one night and have enough presents? He would have to return to the North Pole for pick-ups. And why was he a dick and not giving more to the poor kids? They couldn’t all be naughty.
I decided to ask the mumma bear so she could ease my faith crisis. If you didn’t believe in Santa you get nothing. Believe to receive.
Mum is Santa real, like really real?
She paused and looked at me.
Do you really want to know? Are you sure?
And just like that, the magic died. The one thing I believed in, poof, gone. Not the answer I wanted or expected. The conversation ended with a threat not to tell the other kids the truth or else. At least I wasn’t the last kid to know. The non-believers made fun of the “dumbshits” who believed. Have I mentioned before how horrible little darlings can be?
Christmas Eve arrived and I climbed into bed. In my head, I knew the truth but in my heart, I believed. I dosed somewhat expecting Santa. Waiting for his heavy boots on the carpet. The gravity of the lore held me to my mattress. The idea of a strange man breaking into my house at night made me shit myself. A restless night indeed.
What was that noise? Shit is he here? Will he enter my room? Has he been? Is that a light? Shit, I need to go. What if I run into him? I really need to pee. Is he here? Oh no, Tasha barked… what did she bark at? Did Santa do something to her? I need to check. It’s nothing. Think of ponies. You don’t need to pee. Don’t need to pee…
Santa from gift giver to creep who stalked my hall. And he knew the ins and outs of everyone’s dwelling, didn’t he? He can find a child anywhere. He knows if you’ve been naughty or nice. How did he know?
A part of me, the child part of me, resented that Mum didn’t give me one more Christmas with Santa. A couple of months she could have continued the lie. But, perhaps it was for the best, I turned him into a perv without input. Maybe I was waking up from the dream all on my own.
In our hearts is where Santa resides. The Christmas spirit lives on, after all, I discovered “A Christmas Carol” the following year.
At what age did you stop believing in Santa Claus? Did you have a rude awakening or just grow up? — Prompt by Adrian CDTPPW
